The Twice-blessed Paladin

The Adventurer's Guild stands larger than any other building in Black Hollow, save for the mayor's estate. A sturdy structure of stone and reinforced wood, its doors are carved with the symbol of crossed swords over a shield—the universal mark of adventurers across the land.

As Aldric steps inside, warmth and sound hit him all at once—the scent of roasted meat and ale (which he can't smell), the clatter of tankards, the rough laughter of mercenaries.

The guild hall is packed. Long tables stretch across the common area, where adventurers boast of victories and drink away failures. The walls are lined with trophies—monster heads, shattered weapons, worn banners.

At the far end, behind a long wooden counter, sits the guild's reception desk, where a handful of clerks handle new recruits and mission assignments.

Aldric keeps his stride measured and steady, his tattered cloak wrapped tight. This is his first true test—if they suspect him, everything falls apart.

He approaches the counter, where a young woman with short brown hair barely glances up from her ledger.

"Name?" she asks, voice bored from routine.

He hesitates—a name is a powerful thing. He cannot risk exposing his past.

"...Aldric," he says finally. No surname. No titles. Let the past stay buried.

The clerk sighs and flips through a thick registry. "Any previous experience in adventuring?"

"I was a knight," he says simply.

This does make her look up. She gives him a once-over—his rusted armor, the ragged cloak.

"You don't look like a knight."

He keeps his tone level. "I have been... on a long road."

The clerk shrugs. "We get plenty of sellswords claiming knighthood. You'll have to prove yourself. New adventurers have to take an entry test before receiving a guild rank."

She pulls out a form and slides it across the counter. "Sign here. The test is simple—combat evaluation. Pass, and you get a starting rank and basic equipment."

Basic equipment?

Aldric's skeletal fingers twitch beneath his gauntlets. He needs new armor. His current set is barely holding together, and a new blade would be invaluable.

"Basic equipment?" he asks, keeping his voice even.

She nods. "Standard gear for newcomers. Too many rookies got themselves killed because they couldn't afford proper weapons. Now the guild issues starter armor and a weapon upon signing up. Just iron standard, nothing fancy, but better than rags and rust."

This is an unexpected blessing.

"New armor. A new sword. And no questions asked about where I got them."

Aldric takes the quill, careful not to let his bones show, and signs his name.

"Great," the clerk says, stamping the form. "Your combat evaluation will be in the training yard out back. Go through the side door—one of the senior adventurers will test you."

Aldric nods and heads toward his next challenge.

The guild's training yard is an open dirt arena behind the main hall, surrounded by wooden racks of practice weapons and padded armor. Several adventurers are already sparring, testing their skills or warming up before missions.

Aldric is directed to a dusty ring, where a man in reinforced leather and chainmail leans lazily on a massive greatsword.

"Alright, rookie," the man says, stretching his shoulders. "Name's Gerrik. I'm testing you today."

Gerrik looks Aldric over and snorts. "Rusty armor, busted sword, and you move like you haven't eaten in a week. You sure you can swing that thing?"

Aldric doesn't answer. He steps into the ring, drawing his rusted blade, and sets his stance.

Gerrik smirks. "Alright then. First hit wins. Show me what you've got."

The moment the words leave his mouth, Gerrik moves.

He's fast—faster than a man his size should be. He lunges with the speed of a seasoned warrior, bringing his greatsword in a brutal diagonal slash.

Aldric reacts on instinct.

He sidesteps, the blade barely missing his ribs. His skeletal body moves unnaturally fast, unburdened by flesh. He retaliates—his rusted sword coming down in a precise, calculated arc.

Gerrik blocks just in time, staggering back from the force.

"Not bad," the veteran mutters. "Alright, let's see how you handle this—"

He switches to a feint, faking a low slash before reversing into a high overhead strike.

Aldric sees through it instantly.

He steps in rather than back, shouldering into Gerrik's guard and locking their weapons together.

For a moment, they struggle. Then, Aldric shifts his stance—his unnatural strength surging—and shoves Gerrik back.

The veteran stumbles, and Aldric's blade snaps forward—stopping just short of his exposed chest.

Silence.

Then Gerrik laughs.

"Well, shit," he says, rubbing his jaw. "Guess you weren't bluffing."

He steps back and sheathes his weapon. "Alright, knight. You pass."

Aldric lowers his blade, steadying himself.

His combat instincts are intact, but he felt it.

His body is different now. Lighter. Faster. Stronger. There is no exhaustion. No burning muscles. Only the unsettling ease of movement—his undead form adapting to battle.

He does not know if this is a blessing or a curse.

Back inside the guild, Aldric is issued his starting equipment.

A new set of iron-plated armor—basic but sturdy, covering him completely.

A proper iron greatsword—simple but functional, a vast improvement from his rusted relic.

The weight feels right in his hands. A new identity, a fresh start.

Before leaving the guild, Aldric revisits the blacksmith he spoke to earlier.

The burly man eyes the guild-issued weapon. "Guess you found a sword after all."

Aldric nods. "But I'll still take a custom one."

The blacksmith grins. "Now that's the right attitude. Come back in a few days—I'll have something worthy of a knight."

Aldric nods and leaves, his path clearer than ever.

Tomorrow, he takes on his first quest.